


The Crimson Path

by the_pale_rider



Series: World Eaters series [2]
Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Gen, World Eaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3486230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pale_rider/pseuds/the_pale_rider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The World Eaters learn the truth of the Butcher's Nails</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Crimson Path

Some might have been concerned by the free hand Angron was given when he was reunited with his Legion. Most of his brothers had shadowed and been mentored by their more experienced brothers until they were ready to lead an expeditionary fleet of their own. For Angron, he seemed to have been given free rein to implement whatever changes he saw fit, with little or no oversight. Not that his sons cared. Before Angron’s return, the XII Legion had already been mistrustful of outsiders, preferring to fight separate from their allies. Many had criticised their conduct and actions; the extreme violence, bloodletting and collateral damage of their campaigns. The Twelfth merely returned in kind, resenting any interactions with those outside their warrior brotherhood. When he returned, they saw in their father the embodiment of their ideals and beliefs; a bloody avatar of war, merciless and unstoppable. None questioned his orders or decisions. Not when he ordered them to fight against their brothers in the gladiator pits. Not when he ordered the use of live rounds and bare blades in training exercises. And not when he ordered them to lie on the operating table and accept the Butcher’s Nails. They would follow him into whatever hell he led them, and that loyalty would doom them to walk the Crimson Path.

\------------------

Khârn swayed aside from the edge of the duelling axe and slashed his own blade across his brother’s bare chest, scoring a bloody furrow across the slab like muscle. His opponent roared and spat a curse in Nagrakali. That was second blood to Khârn. The crowd of legionnaires surrounding the pit bellowed in support. The air stinks of sweat and blood. Khârn circles, seeking an opening. The cut on Kargos’ chest has already closed up, the hyper coagulants in his blood clotting fast. Kargos launches himself forward, his axe a blur of steel. Khârn quickly backed away from a wild swipe aimed at his neck and ducked under the return chop. Bringing his fist up and into his brother’s jaw, he felt something crack. Momentarily stunned, the Apothecary reels. Khârn follows up with an upward cut across his foe’s face, leaving another gash across his cheek. Third blood and the bout. He tossed his blade aside and offered a hand to his brother.

“A fine match brother” he grinned as they clasped forearms; a warrior’s handshake.

“Aye but not good enough” laughed Kargos, rubbing his jaw. “You’re earning yourself quite a name in the pits Khârn.”

“True but Delvarus is more deserving. I’ve yet to beat him, as has anyone else. I hear that you’ve earned yourself a name, Bloodspitter.”

“Victory at any cost, Captain,” Kargos smiled, revealing teeth filed to points. “Isn’t that the War Hounds’ way?”

“We’re World Eaters now brother.”

Kargos simply grunted in agreement.

Both World Eaters left the baying crowd as another two combatants stepped into the circle of brothers and began their fight. A tradition brought to the Legion by their father, the gladiator pits were proving to be a popular pastime for the Legion whilst it was stationed on Bodt. Since Angron’s reunion with his sons several weeks ago, the primarch had implemented several changes to his Legion. Combat was now the one and only test legionnaires faced, for that was where bonds of brotherhood were forged in blood and tested by steel. The safety nets of the duelling cages used by other Legions were removed. With all the risks of real combat, the pits truly tested a warrior’s skill, determination and resourcefulness. Fights could go to first, second and third blood, or in rare cases, to sanguis extremis.

Across the red planes of Bodt, groups of World Eaters chanted and roared as their kin duelled for their father. When he arrived, he had ordered his sons to fight and shed blood; to earn his respect and prove themselves to him. They had obeyed without question, eager to win his approval. Some had died, their wounds too severe for even their posthuman physiology to recover from. Astartes vs Asartes combat was a brutal and bloody affair, something never envisioned by anyone in the Imperium. It was deemed impossible; no scenario could be imagined where Space Marines would fight one another. The World Eaters did not care. Nearly all now bore scars from the pits. Some honoured the Triumph Rope that Angron bore; cutting themselves after each bout and dirtying the scar if it was a defeat, leaving it clear if it was a victory. Others, Khârn included, took up the Desh’ean gladiator tradition of chaining their weapons to their wrists. The old ways of the Terran War Hounds were quickly disappearing.

Since the primarch’s return, the War Hounds ceased to be and were replaced by the World Eaters. The collared hound, symbol of the XII Legion since its creation on Terra was replaced by a fanged maw enclosing a planet. The Legion’s flagship Adamant Resolve was renamed Conqueror, a clear statement of the Legion’s new intent and mindset. But the greatest change to the Legion were the reverse engineering and implementation of the Butcher’s Nails.

A piece of archeotech from Angron’s homeworld, the Butcher’s Nails were implants forced on the gladiators of Nuceria to improve their fighting prowess by heightening their aggression to inhuman levels. The implants boosted the production of adrenaline whilst halting the creation of serotonin, creating hyper aggressive and vicious fighters. In the truest sense, the Nails were not implants at all. They added nothing to its recipient’s brain. Instead they stole from it.

The Nails bleached a warrior’s mind of all reason, all caution and all the instincts of morality. They rewarded rage with bursts of pleasure and deadened enjoyment of everything else. Those slaved to the Nails would fight without heed of pain or injury; they would chase the promise of serenity that the pain engine offered. For only violence could replace the constant pain with brief pulses of calm. They had been hammered in Angron’s skull when he’d been discovered on Nuceria. When he had rejoined his Legion, he had ordered his Techmarines and Apothecaries to examine his implants and recreate them for mass implementation. None disagreed. It could not be denied that the Nails had increased Angron’s prodigious skills to frightening levels. Given to Astartes, they’d create a truly terrifying force. The World Eaters accepted their father’s order and had the Nails beaten into their skulls, proud to be remade in his image.

However, the process was not simple. Angron’s implants could not be removed without likely killing him and the first replicas created were poor copies. The earliest results of the surgery created psychotic uncontrollable warriors who had to be euthanised. Eventually, a viable version was created and whole companies of new recruits lay beneath the Apothecaries’ knives and accepted the implants. Existing World Eaters soon volunteered for the procedure. Some were left in a near constant state of rage and frenzy and were drafted into Caedere; beserker squads which were unleashed on the enemy and chained in the ships’ holds outside battle. Those that remained stable soon discovered the hard truth of the Nails; outside of combat, nothing brought them joy. The bonds of brotherhood, once so prized to the War Hounds, counted for naught under the influence of the Nails. Only in the stress of battle would they release electrochemical bursts of pleasure and give them something approaching emotion. Over time, the Nails slowly wrote the brain’s chemistry until the World Eaters only found joy in battle and the shedding of blood.

\------------------

Tick tick tick tick

Khârn could feel his new implants biting into his brain. The mass of cables covered the back of his skull, squatting there like a parasitic spider. He felt a rush of adrenaline surge through him and his body responded, flooding his systems with yet more combat stimulants. His hands shook, wanting to respond to the neurochemical demands of the Nails to pick up his chainaxe and bury it in Skane’s face. They drilled deeper into his mind, demanding he submit to them. His lips drew back in a vicious snarl, saliva running down his chin. He clenched his teeth and fists, forcing his body to calm.

Air screamed and howled around the drop pod has it hurtled down to the planet below. Its rulers had refused to accept Imperial Compliance and resisted the will of the Emperor of Mankind. The World Eaters would bring His wrath down upon them.

“Planetfall in 10 seconds” droned the servitor wired into the pod’s wall.

Khârn brought up the hololith map on his retinal display, checking the deployment zones and ground objectives one last time. His command squad carried out final checks on their armour and weapons. The roar reached ear splitting levels. The pod shook violently as it passed through the atmosphere.

The pod slammed into the ground with enough force to shatter mortal men’s’ bones. Drop pod assaults were an insertion tactic only viable to Astartes; their genetic enhancements and armour protecting them from the terrible violence of the descent.

Khârn was out of his seat before the doors blew, leading his squad through the smoke and into the enemy. The Nails were buzzing in his skull, the nearness of combat causing them to sing. His chainaxe was in his hand and roaring. He did not remember drawing it. Something pinged off his shoulder plate, he barely felt it. He charged, using all the speed his gene-enhanced body and armour’s servo muscles gave him. He could see the foe in the distance, cowering in fear, firing at random. His hearts were pounding, his blood thundering in his veins. He had felt rage before, he had felt wrath. The War Hounds were no strangers to those. But this…the Nails.

This felt pure.  


Pure rage.  


He roared as he buried the buzzing teeth of his axe into the first enemy soldier, his helmet’s vox grille distorting it into a terrifying mechanical howl. Blood sprayed from the man’s torso, drenching his armour. He cleaved left and right, hacking through the scrum of mortals. All he could hear was the screams of dying men and the pounding of his hearts. He was dimly aware of his brothers beside him, cleaving through the enemy’s ranks.

The Nails hammered into his skull, demanding more. His brain felt like it was on fire. He howled in pain and rage, bisecting one man from shoulder to waist and decapitating another with his reverse swing. Something sharp stabbed into his shoulder, having found a weak point between the ceramite plates. Snarling, he smacked his attacker with a backhanded blow, cracking his head back. Another took his place.

Khârn didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. He pressed on, reaping a bloody tally. Soon, his chainaxe’s teeth were clogged and smoking with blood and torn flesh. He took to use it as a club, battering and smashing any who came within his reach. His armour was slick with blood and viscrea. Only the chains binding his axe to his wrists stopped him losing it completely. A red haze descended. He didn’t know who he was. Everything was red. All that mattered was the rage and the Nails’ promise of serenity.

Across the battlefield, thousands of World Eaters wreaked bloody slaughter upon the defiant humans. For the first time, the Legion was Lost to the Nails.


End file.
